


Dynamics

by Vector



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Community: het_challenge, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-14
Updated: 2007-05-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 19:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vector/pseuds/Vector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For prompt: Desire to live. Endgame spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dynamics

One of those little tidbits of information you learned early on as a sky pirate was that crashing any airship larger than an Archadian cab tended to be instantly fatal. You could worry all you wanted about securing yourself for an expected landing, but really, if anything went really wrong and you were headed for the ground, you were headed for it _quickly_. Altitude and the mass of your ship only made things worse.

The _Bahamut_ had started falling from miles up, and it was the size of a city.

Balthier _planned_ on surviving the impact, but he was aware that his optimism was perhaps objectively baseless.

***

When he came to, the _Bahamut _was still, his head was throbbing, and it felt like a Behemoth was sitting on his ribs. But he was breathing. He tried not to be too surprised at that.

Dragging his eyes open was an endeavor - the lids were sticky with grit and the air was still full enough of dust and smoke that it stung. At least that meant he hadn't been out long.

His heart skipped - she hadn't been in great shape even before the crash, but if he was alive, than she must be.

"Fran?" he tried, his voice an undignified croak that made his chest hurt and his mind wince. Belatedly he looked down at his current position. Lying prone on the warped metal paneling, he couldn't see very far around him. He did, however, have a great view of the solid-looking pipe across his ribs. It was at least twice the width of his head, and if it weighed less than a Behemoth, it was near enough to make no difference.

He could see where it had ripped out of the ceiling, inch-thick plating twisted like paper. It seemed improbable in the extreme that he had escaped the forces that caused that with only a bump on the head and perhaps a few cracked ribs, but here he was.

Of course, here was also where he would _remain _unless he got this pipe off. He gave it a shove which he thought made it rock a bit, but the pain brought white sparks to his eyes that made it hard to tell. It made it, in fact, hard to do much other than stop himself from passing out.

Well. That was inconvenient. A few moments of fumbling confirmed what he'd dreaded - he couldn't reach his thigh pouches for his potions from this position. And just glancing around for possible useful tools made his head spin.

He laid his head back desolately. "You know, cruel irony is a terribly unsatisfying literary device," he announced to no one in particular.

"Perhaps we should avoid opportunities for it in the future, then."

"Fran!" Balthier tried to twist to see her, but the motion made his vision go black again. At least her voice had sounded lightly amused, if a bit strained. When he blinked his eyes clear, she was crouched over him, her feet unerringly placed for balance on the uneven metal. She looked worried, but whole.

"Are you alright?" he asked anyway.

"I am fine. I was considerably worse upon my waking, but elixir cures many ills." Her eyes twitched slightly - concern. "It seems you could use the same treatment."

"First I'll need to be... extricated a bit, I'm afraid." He ran his fingers under the edge of the pipe and winced. "I don't suppose you're equipped for heavy lifting?"

A small smile. "Arrangements can be made." She climbed away, her shoes clacking lightly. Before Balthier could do more than wonder what she was doing, she was back, wedging some loose debris under the pipe by his side. Then she shoved, and Balthier admired the muscles in her arm flex for a moment before he realized the pipe had rolled up the debris a few inches, and there was now air between it and his chest.

He tried immediately to sit up, but his arms gave out when it _hurt_. Fran caught his head so he couldn't crack it against the metal again, and put a phial to his lips.

He sipped the elixir gratefully, feeling the stabbing pain of his ribs fade gradually, and the fuzziness of his head knit back into something resembling coherence.

He pulled himself out from under the pipe and stood up carefully. He coughed. "Right." He brushed some dust off his vest, ignoring for the moment the fact that it had rips and deeply-ground-in grime. "Let's get out of here, shall we?" He probed with his foot for a place secure enough to step.

Fran stood and caught his arm when he stumbled. "I believe heading _that _way should get us outside at around ground level," she said calmly, guiding him appropriately.

"Aha. Let's do that, then. I, for one, have no desire to die here."

***

Fran was right, of course, not that Balthier had any doubt. It wasn't long at all before they reached a place where the outer bulkhead itself had torn open. Sunlight from the desert outside highlighted the dust and smoke in the air of the ship.

Stumbling out into the desert air, jumping down a few feet to sink deep into the sand, relieved a tension he hadn't known he had been holding. They were safe.

Fran followed with somewhat more grace than he'd shown, despite the fact that the points of her heels found little purchase.

In the light, she looked more disheveled than Balthier had ever seen her - hair tangled and dark with smoke, skin smeared with oil and who knew what else.

He found himself grinning at her like an idiot. "You are wonderful, have I told you that lately?"

She smiled, and there was relief in her face, too. "Not as such."

He let himself fall back into the sand, not caring how it stuck everywhere in his clothes.

The sun felt warm in his face. He reached up a hand to shield his eyes, and in the process got a good look at what remained of the _Bahamut_. It sent a cold shock through his whole body.

A good portion of the lower part of the fortress was no doubt underground. Most of what remained at ground level was a mess of compressed metal, folded under the force of the rest of the ship falling. The upper portions were in somewhat better shape, but they still showed obvious signs of the impact, and occasionally pieces of the metal shifted or fell. The glossair rings were entirely dark.

Suddenly their escape seemed a lot more miraculous.

Fran settled in a crouch by him and followed his gaze. The look on her face was inscrutable.

He sat up, then, and Fran turned to him, eyebrows raising at his serious look. Threading a hand into her hair, he cupped her head and moved his lips to hers in a kiss. Her hands rested on his shoulders as she returned it. It was familiar, but it was wonderful, and it set his heart racing faster than it already was from elixir energy and after-the-fact panic.

When the urgency of the kiss increased, Fran reached momentarily for the buckles of his vest, then broke away and looked at him.

"I would expect you wish to quit this place quickly. At the very least, for a bath." Her voice was slightly teasing, and it prompted a smile.

"Indeed, I've still not quite gotten a taste for the dirtier work of pirating." Balthier considered. Certainly they were both a mess. But he was tense with a need sparked by more than the kiss, and he thought he saw the same in Fran, her breath coming quickly, if silently. "But I believe it can wait a bit longer."

"Yes," said Fran simply, and her nimble fingers went to work.

He was a bit dismayed at the state of his shirt when it came off; soiled cuffs were one thing, but it was now stained and torn beyond repair. But he could feel Fran's eyes rolling at him without looking, so he let it be and instead focused on more important things, like removing Fran's armor in turn.

Fran's skin was gorgeous in the sunlight, a lovely dusky contrast to her light hair and fur. Her nipples bared made him want to touch, and so he did; the skin of her breasts were smooth to the touch, protected from the grit that coated both their skin.

Eventually he had to stand while Fran removed his pants, which was more of an ordeal than usual - they were stuck uncomfortably to his skin with sweat and grime. She gave him a look, and he, in turn, glanced pointedly at her own hardly desert-suited wear.

"At least my attire has convenient fastenings," Fran countered.

Balthier scoffed suitably dismissively, and then sat back on the ground. He winced as the hot sand hit his skin, feeling it getting into inconvenient places. Perhaps this hadn't been the best idea.

But then Fran settled down with him, and oh, yes it was. Her lips met his again, and her claws skimmed across his chest and down. His own hands fell to her hips to pull her in close as he laid back across the sand. He concentrated on Fran's confident touches and her skin underneath his hands. He shifted a leg between hers and felt her wet, slick against his thigh. He leaned in to lick and bite at her neck, her collarbone, her breasts. Her skin tasted like salt and smoke.

Then Fran shifted away to adjust her position, and before he knew it she was sinking down on to him. His hips rose and he slid in deep, and he didn't think he would ever care about the discomfort of sand again.

The sunlight made it easy to see the flex of muscle in Fran's thighs as she shifted. He ran his hands down them so he could feel them. Coiled tight strength, that was Fran.

Then his eyes moved upward. Fran above him, haloed in the Dalmascan sun, backed by the ruins of the terrible sky fortress, was perhaps the most striking thing he had ever seen.

He let his eyes fall closed, and he lost moments to pure sensation. All of his skin felt too warm, from the sun and from arousal. Fran was warm in a different way and tight around him, moving smoothly. Her hands on his shoulders and on his chest slid on a film of sweat.

Too soon, he felt himself nearing the edge. He met Fran's eyes, and as he saw his desire mirrored, she moved with more force. He gasped as she slammed down onto him, and she echoed the sound, quiet and breathy, as her muscles clenched around him and her head tossed back. And then he was coming, too, bucking up involuntarily, limbs trembling.

He collapsed back in pure exhaustion, and Fran shifted to lie next to him. He looked up once again at the dark remnants of _Bahamut_, then let his eyes slide closed to enjoy the glow of feeling and the warmth of the sun.

After a few minutes, though, he itched; wincing, he reached back to touch the back of his head and found the hair gritty with sand and dried blood.

"I need a bath." He declared as he rose to gather his clothes.

"No doubt." Fran smiled, and he took a moment to admire her lying naked across the sand before he continued.

"And a vacation." This he was quite sure of, as well. "I've had enough of averting wars and rescuing cities for a while." He tried his best to brush off the sand that coated his skin.

"Oh? What will the world do in the meantime?" Fran stood then as well, motion all long-limbed grace, voice sardonic.

"They'll live." Balthier said firmly as he attempted to pull his pants back on. "At least long enough for my triumphant return."


End file.
